


Gospel, For The Fallen Ones

by violentdarlings



Category: Z Nation (TV)
Genre: Gen, Introspection, Platonic Cuddling, Snark
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-30
Updated: 2018-05-06
Packaged: 2019-04-30 02:15:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14486598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/violentdarlings/pseuds/violentdarlings
Summary: Team on the road.Drabbles, in no particular order.





	1. Warren and Murphy

**Author's Note:**

> Title from 'This is Gospel' by Panic! at the Disco. S01 era.

Its’s easier, on the nights they have a truck. They have to stop sometime, after all; vehicles aren’t meant to go forever without pause, or they run out of gas and it’s too dangerous to forage for more. The nights are getting colder, but not cold enough to deter zombies, so someone stays awake to keep watch. Eight of them (minus Murphy, who would just fall asleep and let them all get eaten) means one night a week, which isn’t so bad.

Roberta doesn’t need more than a few hours sleep a night (a side effect of too many years in the National Guard), so she often relieves the night watchman a few hours before dawn. It gives her plenty of time to consider her travelling companions, her mismatched and inharmonious team. 10K and Doc sleep in the open bed of the truck most nights, usually side by side, Doc’s hand on 10K’s shoulder, 10K clutching his sniper rifle like a child’s toy.

Mack and Addy usually take the other side of the cargo bed, curled up together like two halves of the same whole. Roberta looks at them sometimes, Addy’s hands around her bat, Mack spooned against her, his face buried in the auburn waves of her hair. Roberta doesn’t remember that level of closeness, not for the longest time, other than the occasional moments she meets Garnett’s amused glance as they dismember the dead, like one another’s right hands, perfectly in sync.

Murphy occasionally sleeps outside sometimes too, usually on Roberta’s watch nights, like he doesn’t trust anyone else to keep him safe. Those nights are the hardest, Roberta’s eyes adjusted to the absolute darkness punctuated by the uneven light of the moon dipping behind clouds. She has time to study him, the changing topography of his face, the mess of his dark hair, the stubble after he shaves it off, his ears that protrude out when there’s no hair to cover them. It’s almost endearing, except for what an ass he is when he’s awake, but it’s hard to loathe him when the top of one macerated bitemark peeks out from his ugly flannel.

Eight times. She wonders how much of the horror lingers in the flesh, if its even possible to escape that lingering, bone-deep fear. If Murphy’s whining and griping covers a wound far worse than the injuries to his flesh –

Murphy stirs next to her and Roberta eyes him. She’s sitting in the cargo bed, eyes trained all around for zombies, and Murphy is stretched out beside her, his forearm over his eyes, and he’s twitching and moaning.

“Murphy,” Roberta whispers, and pats him gingerly on the shoulder. “Wake your ass up.”

He mutters something about restraints. “Pike me, bitch.” Roberta assumes that’s not meant for her.

“Murphy,” she says, low and calm, and shakes him hard. “Wake up.”

Murphy sits bolt upright, the cargo bed shaking with the force of it. Doc cracks open an eye and 10K’s hands tighten on his rifle. “It’s okay, guys,” Roberta tells them. “Just a nightmare.”

“Ain’t we got enough of those,” Doc says sleepily. 10K makes a vague noise of agreement and turns on his side, his head on Doc’s chest. The older man tosses an arm around the kid’s shoulders and goes back to sleep.

Murphy is shivering, his thin hands clenched into fists, eyes flicking madly behind closed lids. “Murphy,” Roberta says. “What’s going on, man?”

He shakes his head, eyes still shut tight. “They’re always there,” he mutters, voice cracking. “Every time I close my eyes.” Roberta squeezes his shoulder.

“They’re never gonna get you again,” she tells him. A mottled eye flicks open.

“Going to protect me, Warren?” he asks dryly. A corner of Roberta’s mouth turns up.

“All the way to California, baby,” she drawls back. On a whim, she nudges his shoulder, and Murphy wriggles over until his head is resting in her lap. “Don’t start,” she warns, when Murphy starts to get that smirking look. “I don’t want you attracting the zs with your hollering.” Despite her words, she runs a hand over his stubbly head. Murphy leans into the touch like he’s starving for it.

“Yeah, whatever Warren,” he retorts, and snuggles his cheek into her knee. It can’t be comfortable, but his eyelids are slipping shut. “You just wanna get your hands on this sweet piece of zombie-immune ass.” Roberta snorts.

“Keep dreaming, Murphy,” she tells him, but all the same, she keeps him safe until dawn.


	2. Doc and Murphy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Thanks, man. I thought she'd never leave."
> 
> Episode tag to S01 'Sisters of Mercy.'

“So how was the pie?” Doc asks, trying very hard to keep his face still. It’s been a few days since the shitshow at the Sisters of Mercy compound, but Murphy still has a dopey, self-satisfied look on his face from his smidge of slap and tickle in the tent. Weird, Doc considers, the kinda things a woman wants in a man. Z-Apocalypse has a hell of a lot to answer for, when a cute little piece like Pie Girl wants to wrap herself around an ass like Murphy.

“Best I’ve had in four years,” Murphy replies. Doc waggles his eyebrows at him.

“And how was the _pie,_ ‘Daddy’?” he jibes, unable to resist poking at Murphy. The man makes it so damn easy. “Y’all were in that tent for an awfully long time.” Murphy looks like he’s swallowed a lemon. Doc really shouldn’t enjoy how easy it is to wind him up.

“She wouldn’t leave, man,” he says, shifting uncomfortably on his feet. “Pie was so damn good, I woulda given her whatever she wanted. But then she _stayed_.”

“Weird,” Doc agrees. “Crazy, even, that a woman would want a bit of snuggling after exerting all that effort –”

“Effort?” Murphy growls. “I’m _effort_?”

“– baking,” Doc finishes blithely. “Two pies and a little bit of tent action, it’s tough on a body.”

“You wouldn’t know ‘tough on a body’ if it bit you in the ass,” Murphy mutters. Doc aims a gentle kick at his boot. “Hey!”

“Stop whining,” he tells the other man ruthlessly. “I’m older than you, remember. Now go on, git. I gotta take a leak.”

“Whatever,” Murphy grumbles, but he doesn’t leave. Rather, he steps closer. Doc looks up at him, vaguely bewildered. “Here,” he says gruffly, thrusting his hand into Doc’s face. Doc squints at it, and Murphy’s fist uncurls to reveal a squashed-looking cigarette. “Call it a birthday present. Or thank you, or something. Shit, I don’t know.”

“Don’t even know the last time I got a present,” Doc admits, regarding the cigarette with surprise. Carefully, he plucks it from Murphy’s hand and tucks it into his inner pocket, the one where he keeps his most precious treasures. “Thanks, brother.”

Murphy’s head jerks roughly up and down, and his mouth twists in something that might be an attempt at a smile. “Welcome,” he snaps, and wanders off in the direction of Warren, probably to ask her for the fifty thousandth time if they’re there yet. He better be careful. She’s not yet recovered from losing Addy (and Mack, by extension) to that weird lady cult.

Doc fingers the cigarette thoughtfully. One of those luxury items from pre-Z, so often taken for granted. Kind of like –

Doc pales.  “Murphy!” he hollers. The other man turns around, his mottled face twisted up in a scowl.

“What?” he bellows back.

“You used protection, right?” It’s Murphy’s turn to go pale.

“Aw, shit.”


	3. 10K and ensemble

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mid S01, post Garnett's death.

Warren keeps them walking until they’re just about ready to drop. The van they were using crapped out about three days ago, and 10K can barely keep putting one foot in front of the other. Doc actually appears to be walking with his eyes closed, relying on Murphy to keep him from walking straight into a tree. Murphy, for once, isn’t being a selfish asshole and is taking his role as Doc’s unofficial navigator seriously, tugging the other man left and right as necessary. There’s probably something in it for him, 10K reflects bitterly.

“Hold up,” Warren says, and the group unenthusiastically comes to a stop. Warren’s looking up at the sky, the grey thunderclouds brewing on the horizon, the sun hovering barely a handspan over the horizon.

“We don’t want to be out when that hits,” Doc says, blinking in the bad light. Addy dashes out of the looming darkness, her z-whacker raised and bloody, Mack hot on her heels. They’d been scouting the area.

“There’s a horde nearby,” Addy says. “Only a small one, about fifty zs, but we’re running low on ammo and there were too many to take out by hand.”

“We’re all running low on ammo,” Warren says wearily.

“There’s a shack about two miles up the road,” Mack says, mopping sweat off his face with his sleeve. “We’re gonna have to run for it, though, before the zs pick up our scent.”

“Then let’s go!” Murphy snaps, huddling miserably against a tree. “Before we get our faces gnawed off.”

10K rolls his eyes at Cassandra in silent communication – _can you believe this guy? –_ and smirks when she rolls her eyes back – _I know, what a jerk._

“Chief?” Doc asks. Warren’s eyes are shadowed. Happens a lot lately, since Garnett bit the dust.

“Let’s book it,” Warren decides, and 10K stifles a groan, following Addy and Mack as they lead the way through murky, abandoned farmland. The zs aren’t so close that 10K can hear their incoherent, gibbering cries, but that doesn’t mean anything. Some zs are quiet.

By the end of the ‘two’ miles – more like five, by 10K’s count – they reach the shelter. ‘Shack’ is a good word for it. The place is falling down around its ears, as his dad would have said, but it’s got a roof and four walls, and the rain is already starting to pelt down in cold, sharp bursts. It’s better than spending a night under a tree.

Murphy reaches it first, flinging the door open as he hurtles through. Cassandra is hot on his heels, 10K following after, and he realises almost exactly as they do that the two-room shack isn’t secure. The holes in the walls are far more obvious from the inside. “This isn’t defensible,” 10K says to Warren as she slams the door behind them. “We can’t stay here.”

Addy droops. “Sorry, guys,” she says. Cassandra, beside her, lays her head on the taller girl’s shoulder.

“It’s okay,” she says. “we’ll make it work.” 10K looks over the floor, scuffing his foot through the dirt.

“There’s a cellar,” he says.

Warren drops to her knees, running her fingers over the wood grain. “It won’t be massive,” she says thoughtfully. Faintly, 10K can hear a weird, multi-tonal gibbering. The zs are getting closer.

“We’ll make it work,” 10K says, echoing Cassandra. He helps Warren haul the cellar door up, revealing a small, dark space.

“Get in,” he says to Murphy, whose dislike of being ordered around wars briefly with his desire to survive having his fingers gnawed off.

“You first, I gotta piss,” he snarks back, and 10K shrugs, unslings his gun from over his shoulder, and climbs down into the hole.

It’s not the worse place he’s ever been in. There’s a concrete floor and concrete walls; really, it’s a concrete box set into the ground, but there’s ventilation shafts, and there’ll be enough room for them all to spend the night.

In short order, they’re all in the shelter, with Warren last, pulling the door behind her and locking the latch. Addy has a small camp lantern for light, lending the shadows an eerie, flickering quality. 10K, quite pleased with his lot, puts his bag under his head for a pillow and stacks his rifle down by his feet.

Murphy is next to him, which isn’t ideal; 10K would have preferred Cassandra or Warren, even Addy. At least on his other side he has Doc, who can always be relied upon to fart in his sleep but who is possibly 10K’s favourite person in the whole world – tied with Cassandra, of course. 10K rifles through his pockets thoughtfully, finding a single jellybean and a handful of sunflower seeds. Better than nothing, but he withdraws his hand from his pocket without either food. He’s not so hungry he can’t sleep. It’s better to save them for later.

Warren is tinkering with a large black box in the corner of the shelter. “10K, pass me your boot-knife,” she says without looking up. 10K retrieves the blade and passes it to Doc, who sends it down the line all the way to Warren, tucked against the wall. 10K closes his eyes, breathing in the stale air, the scent of unwashed bodies and dirt. It’s almost comforting, now, it’s been the Apocalypse for so long.

He hears Warren’s exclamation of success and cracks open an eyelid. “Wagers?” Warren asks dryly.

“It’s gonna be a huge stack of benzos and a massive bag of weed,” Doc says, ever the optimist.

“It’s empty,” Murphy predicts gloomily. “Or there’s a zombie rat in there.”

“10K?” Warren asks, smiling; 10k just shakes his head at her.

“Just open it, boss,” he tells her. Warren cracks open the box.

“What is it?” Murphy gripes, the furthest away against the opposite wall. 10K cranes his neck over Doc’s shoulder to get a good look.

“Oh, nothing,” Warren says, her voice suspiciously mild. “Just six boxes of protein bars –”

There’s chaos in the shelter. “Food?!” Murphy says loudly, almost deafening 10K’s right ear. “Actual food? Not chicory leaves and dandelion flowers?”

“You’re damn lucky I let you have some of my chicory leaves,” Doc mutters.

“Beef jerky, canned soup, and – oh, Jesus, I haven’t seen this in years, _honey_.”

“Honey? Don’t eat it!” Doc chimes in. “Good for wounds.”

“Is the jerky pre-z?” Addy asks.

“Yeah,” Warren replies, and tosses her a pack. “It’s safe. Give everyone a bit of this.”

Addy distributes the pack of jerky down the line. Murphy stuffs his into his mouth at once, chewing furiously; 10K looks away, vaguely nauseated by the sight of Murphy’s discoloured teeth tearing the jerky to pieces. He can pike a zombie from three feet away and not turn a hair, but damn, Murphy can be gross.

10K nibbles his own jerky. He hasn’t tasted meat for years. It’s nice, kind of like a piece of the pre-z world. When he’s had enough, he tucks the rest into a pocket.

For a time, there is nothing but the sound of contented chewing. 10K falls asleep quite happily in the quiet, curled onto his side, the press of shoulders from both sides. It’s not even the worst place he’s fallen asleep.

 

10 wakes to the distant pelt of rain and a crack of thunder. His head is on someone’s shoulder, his nose buried in their shirt. 10K inhales, and smells sweat, dirt, and an odd, sweetish smell. Thoughtfully, he rubs his cheek against the thin shirt, feeling a rough, odd texture beneath the cloth. Murphy, then. The weird texture is one of his scars.

That must mean that the heavy arm draped over his body is Murphy’s, too. The man has a tight grip considering there’s not much of him beyond scar tissue and snark. 10K considers shifting out of Murphy’s reach, but Doc’s pressed up against him on the other side. There’s not much room to move.

Murphy makes a sleepy sort of rumbling noise. “Stop movin’, darlin’,” he slurs, almost too low to be heard. 10K smirks to himself, wondering who Murphy’s snuggling in his dreams. He doubts very much that Murphy means him.

“Okay, honey,” he whispers back mockingly. There’s a snorting sort of laugh nearby that sounds suspiciously like Mack. But it’s quite pleasant, to be held close to someone, even if that someone happens to be an asshole. Not like it would be holding Cassandra – 10K’s stomach does a weird little flip at the thought – but it’s warm, and it’s comfortable, and it’s easy to fall back to sleep.

In the morning, the storm has passed along with the zs, and 10K awakes to the sound of Murphy huffing, “Jesus, kid, get your ass off me.” For once, 10K sees straight through it, the other man’s posturing, to the scared guy beneath.

“Sure, Murphy,” he says instead of snarking back, and climbs out of the shelter to start another day.


End file.
